


in the hands of gods you have lost your way

by CallicoKitten



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Post-Movie(s), bruce is such a disaster jesus, honestly this was written as an excuse to write alfred sassing bruce every step of the way, pays about as much attention to canon as snyder did, you know for a movie i didn't like i sure as hell think a lot about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:02:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6556519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred shrugs, "Perhaps he's waiting the customary three days before rising. You know, just to really hammer home the Christ allusion."</p><p>---</p><p>in which clark might not be dead but he's not quite ready to be alive again</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the hands of gods you have lost your way

**Author's Note:**

> i'll level with you guys i have never read a superman comic, nor have i ever seen a superman cartoon/tv show. literally my only experience with superman was man of steel so clark's characterisation might be a little off. or really off? i honestly wouldn't know.
> 
> bruce though, he's my boy and honestly, i didn't expect to like ben affleck in the role as much as i did.
> 
> i should add that this work that dcu bruce still did his whole "pretends to be dead and trains all over the world for a bit" thing which alfred was really not a fan of
> 
> title is from "ghost lights" by woodkid

In Bruce's dreams there is a man. A boy, really, a boy with long dark hair and the kind of ridiculous mask another boy Bruce knew wore once. Bruce remembers him differently - this dream boy not _that_ one - panicked and frantic, _find her, Bruce! Find her!_

This time he's calmer, emerging from the darkened corners of Bruce's room, a much kinder figure than the usual ghosts that haunt Bruce's nightmares.

"You have to go back for him, Bruce," the boy says and Bruce recognises him for an instance, something in the back of his mind putting two and two together -but he won't remember that part when he's awake. "You have to."

-

He tells himself when he wakes it's out of a sense of duty that he goes to Smallville. It has nothing to do with a half remembered dream, everything to do with the sour taste in his mouth of words left unsaid, respects unpaid. He watched the funeral from a distance, left before anyone could recognise him, it didn't feel right.

When he gets there he tries to convince himself that the soft thudding he can hear is in his imagination but then Alfred, ever present in his ear says, "No, sir. I can hear it too."

Bruce's mouth goes dry. He has a scanner built in to his cell phone, detects heartbeats and body heat, useful in undercover situations. It flashes up red under Clark's tombstone and Alfred, who is either psychic or has bugged Bruce's phone, says, "Do it quickly. We really don't want to have to deal with the fallout of Bruce Wayne being discovered digging up Superman's body."

When he reaches Clark there's already a hole torn in the mahogany casket the senate sprung for. Clark is wide-eyed, dirt on his face, fingernails a bloody mess.

"Jesus," Bruce breathes, hefting him out. " _Jesus,_ Clark."

Clark breathes and shudders against him, hands scrabbling for purchase on Bruce's jacket. It'll be covered in blood now, Bruce thinks, distantly, Alfred will be pissed.

"You're alive," he says, when he's pulled Clark out onto the grass of the cemetery.

"Y - Yeah," Clark rasps. "I was - " he looks down at the casket, "I _am_ \- "

They lie on the grass for a while and Bruce's mind is blank, overwhelmed. This doesn't make sense. Clark was _dead_ and now he isn't and there's an awful, selfish part of him that's caught up in wondering why Clark is so lucky. Why Clark gets to live another day.

"Come on," Bruce says, eventually, tugging at Clark's suit. They'd discussed burying him in his colours, but Martha had shot them down. She wasn't burying Superman, she was burying her little boy. "We have to tell someone. Your mother will - "

Clark grabs his wrist, "No," he says.

"No?" Bruce repeats.

In his ear, Alfred echoes him.

"No," Clark says, again. He's still panting, taking huge gulps of air. His grip loosens and Bruce glances down, Clark's finger nails are still bloody and wrecked. He should have healed by now. "No."

"Clark, they think you're dead."

"I know, I know that. I just..." he tilts his head back, closes his eyes against the bright of the sun. "Not yet, okay? Not yet."

Bruce stares at him, uncomprehending but something in Clark's steady blue gaze makes him swallow his misgivings. "Alright, I'll take you back to Gotham with me."

Clark looks like he might argue about that but after a few moments contemplation he nods. Bruce stands and in his ear, Alfred sighs, "Shall I make up one of the spare bedrooms then, sir?"

Bruce extends a hand to Clark, hefts him up. Clark sways against him. "The sun," he explains, when Bruce raises an eyebrow. "A lot of my powers are to do with the sun. I think that's - that's why..." His eyelids flutter.

Bruce sighs. The cemetery is still blissfully empty but they can't very well leave Clark's grave dug up and gaping but Clark does not look like he'll be much of a help right now. "Think you can make it to my car?" he asks.

Clark nods but as soon as Bruce lets go of him he sways again and Bruce sighs. "Let me help you."

He half supports, half drags Clark the whole way his car, parked a fair distance away so as not to look inconspicuous and Bruce is half tempted to drive off, leaving the grave open for someone to find. He won't though because watching Clark ease himself into the passenger seat feels wrong, somehow. Clark shouldn't be weak, not ever.

(Bruce made him weak. Stole a poison from a mad man and used it against a God.)

Bruce grimaces, "I'll be back," he says. Clark nods, eyes closed, head leant back against the seat.

Bruce begins to trudge back to the cemetary, "Alfred, let the board know I'll be taking a few days off."

"And what," Alfred says, in the precise tone of voice he used when Bruce first showed him the batsuit, "Precisely do you expect me to _tell_ your employees?"

Bruce glances at Clark, slumped against the window asleep. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Just maybe leave out the grave robbing."

" _Noted,_ " Alfred mutters and there's the little fizzt that says he's signed off.

Bruce sighs and gets to work on the grave.

-

It's a long drive back to Gotham and Clark sleeps through most of it. He still looks pale against the black leather seats, and Bruce notices he's caked in grim and mud. Alfred will have a _fit._ It probably says a lot about the dark turn his life has taken recently that he's more concerned with the upholstery than the recently resurrected man asleep on the seat beside him.

He drives through the night, kept awake by the buzz in the back of his mind that Clark is alive. _Superman_ is alive and they are going to need him. He pulls over for coffee at a roadside diner as the suns coming up, considers texting Diana to let her know.

When they reach Bruce's mansion it's almost midday. Bruce's legs are numb and his eyes ache but Alfred has no sympathy to offer. He meets them in the driveway, lips pursed, hands on his hips like a cross but anxious mother and shakes his head, "At least this one is closer to your own age, Master Bruce."

Bruce snorts out a laugh, "Help me get him inside."

Clark is still mostly dead weight, heavy and warm between them and he mumbles his thanks as they drag him up the concrete stairs, through the entrance hall and up to the bedrooms.

Once Clark is slumped across bed sheets that probably cost more than his family's farm, Bruce follows Alfred down to the kitchen. There are four dining rooms in the mansion (and one banquet hall) but Bruce and his parents had always taken their meals in the kitchens. The warmth of firewood oven, the scent of brewing coffee and of course, Alfred's sour presence.

Alfred takes pity on him and makes him some proper coffee, then stands against the counter, arms crossed. "And just how long are we expecting to house Mr Kent?"

Bruce takes a long, satisfying sip and sighs, "I don't know, Alfred. He says he doesn't want anyone to know he's alive yet. Why would he want that?"

"Well, you would probably know more about _that_ than most," Alfred points out.

Bruce grimaces, "That was different, Alfred. I wasn't _actually_ dead." _And I didn't have a mother, a girlfriend to go back to,_ he doesn't say.

"No, you were merely _presumed_ dead." Then he shrugs, "Perhaps he's waiting the customary three days before rising. You know, just to really hammer home the Christ allusion."

Bruce smiles, "See, you say things like that and then you wonder why I grew up to be a costumed vigilante."

The left corner of Alfred's mouth quirks upward briefly, it's not quite a smile but Bruce will take it. "And _you_ say things like _that_ and it makes me reconsider my promise to your father never to raise a hand to you."

Bruce laughs and Alfred smiles at that, a real smile. He has that gruff, fatherly look in his eye that Bruce always pretends not to see and he can almost hear the _it is good to see you smile again, sir,_ that Alfred doesn't utter.

He drinks the rest of his coffee in silence while Alfred alternates in complaining about Clark's unexpected presence and remarking that perhaps, he will be a good influence on Bruce and maybe _he'll_ appreciate Alfred's cooking a little more.

\---

Bruce spends the rest of the day making repairs and improvements to his suit, reading a constant stream of texts from Diana about the other metahumans she's looking into and shooting off a few quick replies.

The news stations are still broadcasting Superman's memorial wall to wall, interviews with experts and eye-witnesses, speculations about his identity, regrets, apologies. He wonders if Martha Kent is watching half a world away in Smallville, maybe Lois is with her, maybe they're watching together, listening to people clinically dissect the man they both love more than anything else.

It makes Bruce think of Jason. Wonders if Jason would have been worth as much to the people of Gotham. He already knows the answer to that and anger curls in his gut. Jason was worth most of Gotham put together and he's gone because of that. Because he wanted to fight.

The news stations have switched their focus to Lex Luthor for the time being. All the stations use the same footage, Lex a few years ago at the opening of LexCorp's Gotham offices, launching his latest app. They interview the CFO who assures everyone that LexCorp had no idea of their CEO's intentions, that they had known for some time he was slightly unstable and had tried to get him to seek help.

On the screens in the bat cave, Lex smiles as he's lead out of his mansion in cuffs. His hair is dishevelled, he looks kind of dazed. This is the man who could have destroyed Gotham, could have destroyed the world. A half-mad kid with access to alien technology.

Honestly, Bruce wants to tear him apart with his bare hands.

He already knows Lex will get off easy. He isn't like the criminals in Gotham, men with no names, men with rap sheets longer than most novels. Lex has enough money to hire the best the world has to offer in defence lawyers and the evidence they have against him is circumstantial at best. Everything Lois Lane gathered about him has vanished. The thing he created is long gone, whisked away by someone when Bruce and Diana weren't looking and they can hardly call Batman as a witness.

They'll go for an insanity plea or maybe argue the alien tech messed with poor Lex's head and there's no question it probably has but Lex was dangerously unhinged long before go his grubby hands on Zod's ship.

Lex thinks he's won, Bruce knows. Knows it by the dazed smile, knows it by the way he doesn't fight as he shoved into the back of a police van. He thinks he's killed Superman, he thinks he's killed a god and so does the world.

And Batman will punish him for it.

He visits Lex in prison - well, _visits_ probably isn't the right word but he goes, carved metal in hand, anger thick and boiling in his gut, intending to mark Lex for death. It's more than he deserves.

Alfred purses his lips when he sees, doesn't say, _I thought we were past this_ , doesn't say, _haven't you sated your bloodlust yet?_ in a tone dripping in bitterness and disappointment and somehow that's _worse._ When Alfred argued, it meant he still had hope for Bruce, now he looks on in silence because he's given up and aches deep down in Bruce's chest.

He's doing this for Jason, he tells himself. For Jason. For Jason. For Jason.

And for Clark and for Lois and for Martha.

Lex has always looked younger than he really is, angelic in the way Bruce supposes Lucifer once was. He looks different without all that hair to soften him, all that hair to hide behind. Sharper. More exposed. _On the edge._

He's only sorry he didn't move sooner. If he had done, things would have turned out differently, maybe.

He thinks he sees a flicker of fear cross Lex's gaze when he appears but then it's gone and there is only heat and madness. Lex smirks and Bruce thrusts him up against the wall.

\---

He doesn't go through with it. Maybe it's Alfred's disapproval, so loud Bruce can hear it all the way from the mansion. Maybe it's that Clark is alive. Lex hasn't won anything at all. If anything, all he's done is bring them together, is shake them awake and make them realise there's more at stake here than their own cities, their own families.

 _"Ding, ding, ding, ding,"_ Lex mumbles after him. " _Ding, ding, ding, ding._ "

When he gets back to the mansion, Clark's waiting for him in the kitchen. He's dressed in what Bruce is certain he recognises as Jason's and his hair is rumpled. There's a steaming mug of coffee in his hands and a reproachful look on his face.

"You're up," Bruce observes. _You look better,_ he wants to say but doesn't. And Clark does look better, gone are the dark circles, the pallor, the slight tremor when he moved.

"Alfred told me you were paying Lex Luthor a little visit," Clark opens with.

Bruce would dearly love to roll his eyes and leave but he is trying, for the world's sake, not to. He is trying to grow from this.

"What?" Clark says and he's _incensed_ , "You didn't get a chance to mark him with your little brand before they hauled him off?"

Bruce doesn't get why Clark's so angry, really he doesn't. There is a part of him, once upon a time, before he lost Jason, before Dick began refusing to talk to him, that would have reacted the same way, he supposes. Maybe things are different in Metropolis but in Gotham, the prison system is broken, murderers, rapists, child abusers, they're all chewed up and spat back out onto the streets within a year.

People died because of it, because the government insists they're rehabilitating felons when all they're really achieving is giving them ample time and opportunity to learn how to be better criminals. So Bruce started taking out insurance policies in the form of his little black bat.

The bat marked them as good as dead and maybe Bruce has lost sleep over it, maybe he's lain awake internally debating just how culpable he is in the deaths of those men because Bruce _doesn't_ kill. But if it happens because of him, is he still guilty? If he only uses it on the worst of the worst, is it still a crime?

The death penalty exists for a reason, after all.

He could explain this all to Clark, of course. He could say, in all honesty, that it was wrong but that there are some people who don't deserve to live. There are some people he can't _risk_ letting live.

There are some people he has let live who have come back and destroyed so, _so_ much that Bruce holds dear and if that happens again -

Well, Bruce doesn't know.

He doesn't though. He stays silent. Sets his jaw like a stubborn teenager and when Clark quirks his eyebrows up, an _I'm waiting_ gesture he says, "He's dangerous and they won't be able to keep him there long. You know that as well as I do."

Clark looks _despairing,_ "He's _sick._ He needs _medicine,_ Bruce."

And Bruce hates him in that moment. Hates him with _everything_ he has because Clark is sitting here, in his kitchen, powerless, _helpless_ and he is giving the man who killed him, who kidnapped his girlfriend, who kidnapped his _mother_ a free pass because he's _Clark Kent._

Bruce wants to tell him all of this. Wants to spell it out nice and slow and stay calm about it but he knows he won't. He'll yell it, he'll clench his fists and barely be able to restrain himself from smashing Clark's pretty face in because he wants - he _needs_ Clark to be angry. To _take_ some of this anger that has bubbled up in his gut and burnt away the heavy, festering sorrow that's made its home in Bruce's chest since he was made an orphan and let Bruce _breathe._

He doesn't want to be angry on Clark's behalf.

 _No one's asking you to,_ he can imagine Clark saying quietly.

_Let it go, Bruce._

He curls his hands into fists anyway, counts to ten like Alfred still reminds him to do in that bored tone of his and grits out, "He _killed_ you."

And Clark sighs, world-weary, "I'm not dead, Bruce."

"As far as the world is concerned, you are." Bruce says. He pulls the little metal bat out of his pocket and drops it with a clatter onto the table between them.

 _I didn't go through with it,_ he doesn't say. _Your murderer's pretty face is intact._

\---

The trial begins a week or so later, they watch Lex being led from a police van into the courthouse over bowls of cereal because Alfred's decided he's not cooking that week. When Bruce complained he pointed out that it was well within Bruce's capabilities to hire a chef. Or two. Or whole team, even. And Bruce could but he's not going to and Alfred knows it.

They watch the report with a kind of hushed reverie and Bruce could be present in person, will be the next day but for some reason, he didn't feel up to leaving Clark alone today.

Clark must have noticed by now that Lex's face is bat free and Bruce dearly hopes he won't bring it up.

The defence is no different than half the criminals Bruce has helped put away before: they're focusing on Lex's home life, the abuse, the mental illnesses he's clearly struggling with. They're planning to argue that the Kryptonian craft had some influence on him as well but surprisingly, 'alien artefacts made them do it' as a defence isn't going down well with anyone.

The difference here is that Lex is rich and white and _influential_ and already has a lot of support in the press. There is of course the push back, the people who don't believe a word of it, the people who refuse to believe Alexander Luthor, the man who proved the American Dream was attainable, could be so _monstrous_ to his childhood.

When court adjourns for the day Clark touches Bruce's shoulder, smiles rather self-consciously and says, "I owe you an apology, Bruce."

"Yes, you do," Bruce says frostily.

Across the room, Alfred rolls his eyes. He knows because he too rounded on Bruce in anger last night and unfortunately for him, Bruce's patience had run out. They'd yelled, Bruce's resolve had crumbled and later, Alfred had brought him tea and patted him on the shoulder with a very significant look. It's been their routine since Bruce was thirteen and resolutely told Alfred he was too old for 'touchy-feely' things.

\---

He's back on the streets that night, clearing out a drug den in the Narrows. They've gotten a hold of some of Jonathon Crane's formula and are trying to synthesise it. No rest for the morally grey.

Diana calls him on as he's on his way back, "I think I've found a lead on the speedster," she tells him, excitedly. "His name is Barry Allan, he lives in Central City. How do you think we should play this?"

"Back off for now," Bruce decides.

Diana pauses, "That's unlike you, Bruce. What's wrong?"

Bruce could point out that they've only known each other for about a week or so and that most of their time together was spent fighting a half man-half monster rather than bonding. (To be honest though, Bruce has made most of his friends that way.) And anyway, Bruce is fairly sure Diana _does_ know him well enough to tell when something's wrong.

"It's a long story," he settles for because even though Clark probably wouldn't mind Diana knowing, it seems the right thing to do.

She's quiet for a moment. "Alright. But you better find time to tell me it someday."

Bruce smiles, "Don't worry. I will. Keep me posted."

When he pulls in to the bat cave Clark is there. Bruce stares at Alfred, accusatory. Alfred peers at him over the rim of his glasses, "Well, if he's going to stay here he may as well be _useful_."

Clark is bent double over a new bat suit prototype, evidently being instructed by Alfred.

"And as you so kindly pointed out, Master Wayne, I am getting slow in my old age."

Clark looks up, "Happy to help."

"I'm going to bed," Bruce decides.

\---

In Bruce's dreams, he can hear Clark pounding on his coffin and Lex is somewhere chanting, _ding, ding, ding._

There are demons then, pouring out of the sky, he can hear Clark pounding but he can't get to him and Diana is busy, chasing a boy who can run faster than light and a man who lives under water and a cyborg.

_Ding, ding, ding, ding._

Bruce is powerless and there are pearls - scattering, clattering across the floor. Stained red.

He jerks awake and lies gasping for a moment. When his breathing has levelled itself, he stands and pads out of his room towards the kitchen or the cave or the library or somewhere. He finds Clark halfway there and they both pause awkwardly.

"Are you - " Clark starts gruffly and Bruce belatedly remembers Clark's super hearing. Bruce knows he's not a silent sleeper.

_Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding._

"Are you alright?" Clark finishes.

Bruce sighs, "I'm fine, Clark." _Did I wake you?_ He doesn't add, hoping mind reading isn't among Clark's many talents.

"Don't worry, you didn't wake me," Clark says and Bruce thinks _fuck._ "That was Alfred's snoring." Clark smiles then and after a fashion so does Bruce.

It's a joke. It's alright.

"Yeah, he has an entire _wing_ to himself and yet I'm still convinced I can hear him some nights," Bruce says. He peers at Clark, curiously. "How do you tune it out, usually? I'm assuming you can or your ears would probably bleed constantly."

Clark shrugs, one shouldered, "Just something I had to learn how to do." He shifts uncomfortably, bare foot on Bruce's cold tile floors. "Well, I better - " gesturing vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

"Yeah," Bruce says. "Sleep well."

Clark smiles and nods his thanks and leaves and Bruce stares after him. Clark is the most dangerous being on the face of the Earth. That fact keeps hitting Bruce at odd moments and barely a month ago, Bruce wanted him dead.

He should probably apologise for that.

\---

"How long are planning on staying?" he asks, at breakfast the next morning. Alfred has cooked today, for Clark at least. Bruce isn't sure what he's done to deserve Alfred's animosity this time but he thinks it's probably undeserved.

Since he's a grown man though, he makes his own breakfast and sits down opposite Clark.

Clark looks up when Bruce asks him, startled behind the glasses he's magicked up in the past few days (he probably found them somewhere in the mansion, there are probably untold treasures lurking in the corners of darkened rooms that Bruce hasn't entered for years.) "Oh, I uh, I'm sorry if I'm intruding," Clark starts .

Bruce shakes his head to cut him off, "You're not, Clark. Really. I was just curious."

"Oh, well in that case," Clark takes a sip of his coffee. "I uh, I was thinking until after the trial. If that's alright with you?"

"Sure," Bruce says and that's that.

\---

The trial is a media sensation more than anything and Bruce goes and says his piece and ignores the rest of it. Clark and Alfred keep tabs on it; tell him about Lex's apparent refusal to take the stand, the seven psychiatrists the defence bring in to outline Lex's damaged psyche to the court.

At night, Bruce clears up the streets of Gotham the best he can, Clark in his ear as well as Alfred now which is impossibly _annoying_ and just as he's getting used to it the trial is over.

He watches from the batcave as the media announces that Lex Luthor has been found guilty of an act of terrorism. Bruce closes his eyes, sinks into his chair, his legs suddenly weak.

It's more than he expected and Lex is lead away with a faraway look in his eyes.

He comes upstairs the next morning to find Clark shaking hands with Alfred in foyer, a duffel bag at his feet.

"I really do wish you'd reconsider, Clark," Alfred is saying. "It's been rather nice having someone around to help me keep Master Wayne in line." He spots Bruce over Clark's shoulder, "Ah, speak of the devil. Honestly, sir, you woke up earlier in your playboy days. All this crime fighting is taking it's toll."

Bruce ignores that and nods to Clark instead, "You heading home?"

Clark shakes his head, "No, uh, not yet, actually."

"Oh?" Alfred says.

Bruce frowns, "So, where are you going?"

Clark rubs the back of his neck, "You know, before I was Superman I was something of a drifter. Helped me think things through some so I figured I'd go back to that for a while."

Bruce exchanges a look with Alfred, "Your mother and Lois are waiting for you, Clark," Bruce says. "You know that, right?"

"I do," Clark nods. "But... They're safer with me dead. For the time being anyway."

 _She's the key,_ the boy in Bruce's dreams had said. _Find her! You were right about him, Bruce. You were right to fear him!_

A chill runs down his spine. He takes stock of Clark, standing uncertainly in front of him. His hair is getting long and he hasn't shaved, he's antsy, shifting, glancing over his shoulder at the front door. If he's alone what keeps him human?

"Well," Alfred says, and there's a clear note of disapproval in his tone. "Don't keep them waiting too long. It's less of a joy than you might think for someone you thought long dead to stroll back into your life just as you were moving on." He says, with a pointed look at Bruce.

"Well, that's a story I'd like to hear," Clark says, reporter mode engaged.

"Some other time," Alfred says, with a smile.

Bruce shakes his head and holds out his hand, "Don't be a stranger, Clark."

Clark takes it, grips it firmly, "I'll be around if you need me, Bruce."

He takes a few steps out of mansion and he's gone in a whoosh of air and a sonic boom. Alfred looks after him mournfully and then looks back at Bruce, "And to think, you wanted to kill him."

"Oh my _god,_ Alfred. Let it go."

\---

He keeps an ear out after that, collects odd stories of miraculous rescues, traces what he imagines is Clark's path across the states, down through Mexico and onwards. He keeps tabs on Lois Lane and Martha Kent and visits a boy named Barry Allan in Central City with Diana at his side.

(He keeps a lump of kryptonite in the batcave just in case.)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://paracosmss.tumblr.com/)


End file.
